


By Tooth and Claw

by sylvanWhispers



Series: Thramsay Halloween [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age of Heroes AU, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Dark Fantasy, Gender Issues, M/M, Norwegian Mythology & Folklore, Post-Apocalypse, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, References to Lovecraft, The Long Night, Vampires, if we're being technical about what the long night was
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21644032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylvanWhispers/pseuds/sylvanWhispers
Summary: It’s the Age of Heroes, smack in the middle of the original Long Night. It’s a time of demons and wights, where any god-touched man who can defend his lands may be crowned a king. When Winter King Robb is struck by a terrible curse, Grey Prince Theon is forced to journey into the territory of the dreaded Red Kings to seek a cure.Little does Theon know that the mountains of the North hold untold dangers, for the night is dark and full of terrors.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy
Series: Thramsay Halloween [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1507499
Comments: 79
Kudos: 176





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those who have been following my Thramsay Halloween series may know that Soul Sick was initially planned as a 20k oneshot, which upon completion would make way for another fic that I would have published by Oct 31. However Soul Sick inexplicably became a +50k trap, and thus this fic wound up being a full month and another major holiday late.
> 
> So yeah. This is *the* Halloween story, and I have to warn you that I went FULL ham on it. As in I have references to the fantastic festive cheese that is the _Van Helsing_ movie and that doesn't even prepare you for the absurd heights we're about to ascend. Ye be fuckin warned.

Theon’s mother used to hold him close at the hearth and tell him stories of the time Before.

She would describe to him what the sun had looked like, felt like, before the endless winter night had closed in. The sky had been blue and the Deep Ones had been a distant memory of their ancestors’.

“When the First Men settled on the islands, they found that they were not truly the first,” his mother whispered. “For there were strange structures of black stone littering the shores, most especially Old Wyk. It was where they found the Seastone Chair, along with the half-submerged temples of the Drowned God.”

Theon had leaned closer to her and her warmth, trying to imagine a world where heat did not come solely from flame or a mother’s embrace.

“They thought them to be ruins, flooded over time,” his mother continued. “The men didn’t yet realize that the temples had been built by a people who lived beneath the waves.”

“The Deep Ones were sleeping.”

“That’s right. When they first woke that winter there was conflict, but The Deep Ones were swayed once allowed to mate with the First Men, who sired and bore them children. The first true Ironborn.” She combed her fingers through Theon’s hair. “It wasn’t long before the Deep Ones slipped back beneath the waves to resume their slumber.”

The Deep Ones had arisen soon after the Long Night and over a decade later they had not returned to sleep. It had previously been relatively easy to appease their ancestor-cousins, back when winters were short and summer was always on the horizon. Now the Deep Ones grew bold and greedy. They wanted more brides, more grooms, more sacrifices for the Drowned God, and the undersea treasures they offered in return were no longer as tempting as they’d once been.

Theon’s father was growing increasingly agitated about it, murmuring with his men about the possibility of war. The risk was great. A broken alliance with the Deep Ones not only risked the wrath of the Drowned God, but their people were dependent on a favorable sea to survive the winter. If their fishermen found their nets barren or their ships sacked, it could spell the islands’ annihilation. There was only one reason Balon was even considering it.

“Are they going to take Yara?” Theon asked, wringing at the hem of his mother’s dress.

Alannys was quiet.

It was young noblewomen who were taken by the Deep Ones into the heart of the Drowned God’s temple, the cost for their houses' rulership over the islands. As often as possible they were bastard or salt daughters; those who carried the sacred bloodline but were otherwise expendable. Many never returned. Those who did, did not return the same.

“The Sirens are the shieldmaidens of the Drowned God,” she murmured finally. “They protect our people in life and escort us in death to his hall. It is an honor to be chosen.”

Theon had seen the Sirens before in his father’s keep. Hard, ethereal women, beautiful but frightening. As priestesses of the Drowned God they bridged the way between the Deep Ones and the Ironborn, and would not likely partake in a conflict between the two.

“Then why is father starting a war he can’t win?”

To that there was no answer.

* * *

The conflict with the Deep Ones did not last long, but long enough to claim the lives of Theon’s brothers. It was said that once the Deep Ones crawled from the sea to climb the rocks of Pyke, King Balon made a desperate bargain to save his last favored child.

Take the boy instead.

Unheard of. Not against the rules, apparently.

Theon didn’t recall much of it. He remembered his mother’s cries mingling with his own, the slippery webbed grasp of the Deep Ones as he was dragged from his home. He remembered the piercing cold of the waves, the air leaving his lungs, the strange lights and sounds of the undersea temple.

It felt like a dream.

Theon’s boots made almost no sound on the glistening tile, the hall a strange amalgamation of runic Seastone and polished ivory bone.

The torches and lanterns of the Grey Hall buzzed and seemingly spoke to each other, flickering and pulsing in succession. The Nagga had breathed the Storm God’s white fire, crackling and alive and volatile. The sea dragon’s body still hosted its flame today - not as a living terror to the islands, but as the queen’s skeletal hall.

He stopped a respectful ten paces away. “Sister.”

Yara looked down at him from her perch in the Seastone Chair, where she had ruled as Grey Queen ever since slaying the Nagga in the Drowned God’s name. Her throne’s outstretched tentacles created writhing shadows in the dancing torchlight, as if the spirit of the kraken itself enshrouded her. Its shadows tangled with those of the arching maw of the Nagga’s teeth that composed the ceiling, casting a likeness of the two beasts locked in spectral battle upon the walls.

Most of the men shrank from her now. They whispered that she was something more than human, possessed by the Drowned God’s will. Theon did no such thing. If anything it was his sister who struggled to maintain his gaze, the weight of her guilt always wearing at her resolve.

 _It should have been me,_ her dark slate eyes always said.

Theon knew. Maybe in another world their father had thrown Yara to the sea instead, leaving Theon to take the Chair and lead their people. Where would their islands be then?

Probably at the bottom of the ocean.

It was his sister who slaughtered the Nagga and erected her hall from its bones, who felled the demon-tree Ygg and shaped its flesh-like wood for her ship. It was she who avenged their father by slaying their mad uncle, and who held back the Deep Ones whenever they sought to encroach on the rocks and steal more of their people into the waves, for even they had come to see her as a vessel of their shared god.

“Brother,” she replied, thoughtfully turning her dagger over in her hand. “I have a task for you.”

The hall was empty save for the two of them, which was perhaps for the best. The men never seemed to know how to react to Theon’s presence either. He was their prince and yet he wore the rubbery coral-blue garb of the Sirens, hugging his body and adorned with minimal armor paneling. He didn't really know what any of it was made of. The material was durable but light, inlaid with small silver scales so its color seemed to shift beneath in the moonlight. The fabric at the sides of his torso was thinner to allow water to pass through.

He was recognizable on sight as sacred, but less than human. Certainly less than a man.

“We’ve received word from the North of a recent tragedy,” Yara said, voice carefully level.

Theon distantly felt the tingle of something like fear. It was hard to say. Emotions that he’d once known so intimately became mysterious to him after his sacrifice.

The Ironborn’s relations with the Northmen was a new and tentative arrangement. Their ships had reaved the Winter King’s people in the past, but where their father had once preached war Yara had sought to broker peace.

“The Northmen are our natural allies against the Southron nonsense,” she had said. “They are also the first line of defense against the White Walkers. If the North falls, our people will be soon to follow.”

Theon had been sent to foster ties with the Winter Kings in the past, an envoy serving to demonstrate both trust and the Drowned God’s power. The Ironborn now occasionally sent food to the Northmen holding the line against the Others. The alliance had the additional benefit of the Marsh King no longer shooting at them on sight.

Theon didn’t ask if Robb was still alive, or if son had fallen like father. It would be a sign of weakness to grow attached to anyone, let alone an outsider, in this time of death and war. Sirens couldn’t be weak.

“King Robb still lives,” Yara said, watching him carefully. “Although I don’t know if that’s a mercy.”

“Explain.”

“He’s been cursed. Trapped between the forms of man and wolf, a monster that now terrorizes the lands of his own people.”

On the outside Theon did not flinch, but inside he felt himself grow cold.

Everyone knew that the Winter Kings were touched by their Old Gods to be wargs and shapechangers. It was how they protected their people and were elevated as sovereigns in the first place. Such was simply how kings were made in this world - if you were blessed by the divine and thus able to defend your lands from the demons and wights, the people would flock to you and bow before your crown. Possessing “king’s blood” was synonymous with being god-touched.

“His half-brother is interim Winter King now, though how he’ll manage it whilst also holding the line against the Night King’s undead, I don’t know.” Yara sighed. “He’s asking us for aid. Word has it that the Red Kings likely had a hand in the whole affair, but King Roose was killed in Robb’s rampage and his bastard’s playing dumb about it.”

“Jon wants me to question him?”

Theon and Jon had never been close. He hadn’t understood why Robb would shower so much affection and trust on an illegitimate brother, and a bitterness that might have been jealousy had festered from that confusion.

“The Red Kings are leeches and skin-takers, but not fools,” Yara said with distaste. “If they were involved then they will have a cure.”

“I see. If it exists, I'll find it.”

Yara stared unhappily into the shadows. “The North is a mess. When King Robb went mad his family was forced to flee the keep and has since been scattered to the four winds. If you succeed I’m going to push for a betrothal between you and the older Stark girl. Should she be found alive, that is.”

Something in Theon’s chest fluttered with interest.

Sansa was a beautiful, if seemingly simple girl that Theon had only dared hope to have in moments of great naiveté. Her royal father had accepted Yara’s offer of peace and Theon’s presence in his house with regal grace, but would never have given his daughter to the Ironborn. Things were still too fraught between their peoples, what with the North being so damn proud of its long memory and all.

“Sirens don’t… we don’t often marry,” he said awkwardly.

Yara fixed him with a stare that was equal parts affection and sadness. “So? They are not often men, either.”

Her eyes had once been dark as the sky, but now they were now an unearthly grey. Her skin had grown progressively pallid as well, and it seemed likely that her hair would soon follow. The power of the Drowned God surely thrummed within her, washing away and replacing her color, leaving her pale and glowing like a ghostly star. Like the moon herself up above, forever holding sway over the tides.

Theon might have been sacrificed first but they were both owned by the ocean now. Just in different ways.

* * *

“You should not go.”

Theon didn’t look up, continuing to wipe down his sword before sheathing it definitively.

“Go where?”

“Don’t be obtuse. The mission the queen gave you.”

Marina was not her real name but none of the other Sirens liked to talk about who they’d been before. They had encouraged Theon to take on a new name of his own, to forsake his house and be only a child of their cause. He had refused.

His name was who he was. It was the only tether he had left and without it he would be set adrift.

The pair of them were stood on the rocks of Great Wyk, dripping in saltwater and sea drake blood. The beasts had been summoned by the Storm God into the trench beyond the islands, where they had since begun to breed.

“You will manage well enough without me,” he said. “There are enough Sirens to hold the line. You can miss but one.”

“That is not the problem.”

Marina cut a compelling figure in moonlight, water running down her form. Theon thought she might have been a Kenning based on her features, or perhaps a Pyke of Kenning parentage. The fit of their uniform left few proportions to the imagination, but Theon had always struggled to feel lust for the other Sirens. His having known most of them from a youngling age as well as meeting them in the aftermath of his life’s greatest trauma likely had a hand in it.

Theon shrugged. “It is a command from my queen and sister.”

“The Drowned God is your only true sovereign. Are we not also your sisters?”

Theon scowled. “You are not.”

Marina looked at him with a hybrid of irritation and pity. “You are truly lost, Theon. You will not find yourself in the North.”

“I seek only a cure for my friend.”

“‘ _Friend?_ ' Sending you away from us was the queen’s greatest mistake,” Marina said with disdain. “It has allowed you to pine for and pursue things that you cannot have. Nothing in that world is for you.”

“It is not your place to tell me what I can and cannot have. I am still Prince of these islands.” Theon pushed roughly past her. “You are wasting your time.”

“Aye, I cannot stop you. But heed my words - there is a darkness on those mountains, prince. I can feel it, and if you were not hellbent on denying your truth you would sense it also.” Marina assessed him sadly. “… I will pray for you. May the Drowned God keep your soul, once the North has taken everything else.”

* * *

The ocean was often kind to Theon but in this case the journey was a hard one.

The territory of the Red Kings was vast, stretching from mountains to coast. It was further north than Theon had ever gone before. No hippocampi would carry him the last leg of the journey, nor any other sea beast, and so he was forced to sail. _Don’t go,_ the waves seemed to plead, pulling his ship and fighting his steer the closer to his destination he cruised. However Theon refused to yield, and at long last he was able to make port.

While it was not objectively more dour than the rest of the country, there was an especially unhappy aura to the place. Theon dismounted from his ship with his hood pulled low over his eyes, a shade of sea blue-green that shone with an unearthly gleam ever since his claiming by the Drowned God. He shrouded himself in his cloak, uncertain if a Siren’s attire would be recognizable in this region but unwilling to draw attention to himself regardless.

He bought himself a wagon ride upriver with a gold coin, though the merchant seemed more interested in having a trained sword to protect him on his journey. They made their slow ascent into the mountain pass, where the snow fell thick and the trees blotted out the darkened skies. The horses bayed and shuddered as the distant shrieks of demons echoed through the night.

There were no haunted forests on the Iron Islands, the trees having long been felled for the fleet. Their dangers came from the deep - the water devils and salt spirits that crawled from the waves, the sea dragons and stormbirds that attacked their ships - before the Sirens fought them back again. It was not an easy life by far, but Theon could scarcely imagine living in a world so large, surrounded by endless lands you could not control or secure.

The merchant was wise enough to not ask questions. A man who knew to mind his own business stood a better chance of survival, and surviving was something Northmen were notoriously good at. Even in a land as punishing as this. They stopped off at an inn for the midpoint of the journey. The sign was adorned with red X, applied in dark red paint that Theon would bet wasn’t paint at all.

“It marks the place as under the protection of the Red King,” the merchant said when he caught Theon staring. “It’s the last resting place before the township. His men pass through here often.”

An ideal place to scout for information then.

The Red Kings were touched by the gods as well, same as the Winter Kings to the west of them and the Marsh Kings to the south. However it seemed that the Old Gods were diverse in taste when it came to dispensing their blessings: the Winter Kings were wolves, the Marsh Kings witches. The Red Kings were bloodfiends.

“I thought the Red Men were all blood drinkers?”

“They don’t come for the stew, lad.”

The warmth of the inn was a welcome blessing in of itself, but the abundance of working whores inside made it all the better. Theon watched them watch him as he ate, after which he beckoned over the one he judged to have the fairest face.

“I haven’t seen you around before, m’lord,” she said as she led him by the hand upstairs. “I would have certainly remembered.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Theon shut the door firmly behind them. “I suppose a lovely girl like you sees the Red King’s men quite often.”

The girl’s smile flickered. “I cannot speak of what others I see, m’lord. This inn pays tax and tribute to the Re-”

“Let me ask you again.” Theon met the girl’s eyes, his voice humming with power. “ _What do you know of the Red King and his men?”_

The girl’s pupils stretched wide, her features going slack.

“We call them the Bastard’s Boys, but only when they can’t hear,” she said, hazel eyes now blank and vacant. “They come by every moon or so on their patrols, to collect their King’s dues and slake their lusts.”

She undid her dress in absent, dreamlike movements, exposing the bite marks that marred her porcelain skin. Theon grimaced at the scars on her breasts and thighs.

“The Red King terrorizes his own people?”

“He and his men defend our borders,” the girl said. “There are many dangers out there in the dark. Here we contend with but one.”

Theon supposed that was as fair a justification as any in this world.

“What have you heard about the Winter King’s ailment? Any boasting from the Red Men, perhaps?”

The girl tilted her head as if in thought, her eyes still glassy and empty.

“They thought it was very funny.”

Theon rolled his eyes. “And?”

“I know nothing more, m’lord. Only that the Winter Kings and Red Kings have been at odds for over an age, but that King Roose agreed to join their forces against the Night King’s invasion.”

“And where does his bastard stand, now that his father is dead?”

The girl was beginning to tremble, struggling against the Siren’s spell compelling her to speak.

“M’lord please! If he learns what I’ve told you, he and his brides will hunt me for sport.”

“Then he mustn’t find out, must he?” Theon asked mockingly. “ _Answer me_.”

“King Ramsay has no love nor care for the Winter King,” the girl said with a sob. “He has turned his attentions to securing our lands, and vowed vengeance on King Robb if the beast ever breaches our borders. He has gone out with hunting parties for that purpose already.”

Theon distantly felt rage burning in his veins. King Roose had pledged his support to Robb’s cause in defending the North, and this Ramsay had not only abandoned Jon’s forces to fend for themselves, but was actively trying to hunt Robb down. If the Red Kings truly did have any connection to Robb’s curse, it would be more than enough cause for war.

It was clear the girl didn’t know anything else.

“Lay on the bed and keep your eyes closed,” he snapped.

Once she’d obeyed he saw to the removal of his cloak, fingers irritably searching for the seam of his suit.

* * *

Theon sent the girl away as soon as he was done, barricading the door behind her before allowing himself to sleep. By the time he woke and re-dressed the merchant had already gone on his way. Deeply inconvenient, but the road to town was well-worn from here onward and Theon was capable enough of making the trek on foot.

It was a little disorienting, removed from civilization and any means of telling the passage of time in the endless night. In the islands, as well as most settlements, a bell tower would announce the time upon each complete turn of an hourglass. Once he came to town he was sure that things would right themselves.

Though Theon had never been fond of the woods or mountains on principle, the path ran alongside the Weeping Water and he found the river’s presence to be of some comfort. It was a vein that connected Theon straight to the sea, even as each step carried him further inland. The ocean was his true home after all, the Drowned God his true father. King Balon had cast him out and the sea had taken him into its bosom instead.

Robb had begun to broach the topic when they were boys, their friendship having developed to an appropriate level of familiarity.

“Did it hurt?”

Theon wasn’t sure which part he’d been referring to. The fear? The abandonment? The transformation? Yes, yes, yes. More than anything. More than dying. Even as his flesh and blood were made holy and his suffering made sacrament, he’d wished for release.

“Not really.” Theon had shrugged offhandedly. “What about you? Does it hurt when you shift?”

“Hm. Kind of? Sometimes. I think I’m getting better at it.”

But Robb was born with the Old Gods’ blessing alive and ready in his veins. Theon’s had been activated through strife and sacrifice: Deep One heritage sleeping in his blood and only roused once he was deposited within that strange, glowing temple.

“You only had to change once,” Robb had teased. “We have to do it _all_ the time.”

“You change skins like cloaks,” Theon had retorted. “My remaking was different. Most do not survive.”

It was proof, he thought. Proof of his god’s love, proof that he was special. That he was meant for something great. It had to be. Otherwise… what was it all for?

“It was very brave of you to do such a thing for the protection of your people,” Robb had said, fair blue eyes so bright and warm.

Theon had shifted uncomfortably, ignoring Jon’s too-sharp, too-knowing gaze watching them from the shadows.

“Of course it was.”

* * *

The heart of the Red King’s territory was little less than a city but far more than a town. Impressive, given the relatively low population in the North compared to other regions. Theon could at least see how the Red Kings had served as the Winter Kings’ rivals for so many generations.

He kept his eyes down and avoided the wary stares of the smallfolk who were likely unused to outsiders and strangers wandering through. It wasn’t hard to see why - a flayed corpse had been hung at the gates of the walled settlement, a wordless warning to any enemies or troublemakers. The body was mostly blackened by exposure but the frigid air had clearly preserved it beyond its time.

The township was settled in the mountain taiga, composed of wood and stone buildings alike with old and new structures layered upon each other. Braziers and torches burned at spaced intervals but did little to combat the night’s chill. In the darkness Theon could see lights glimmering further up in the rocks - the infamous Dreadfort.

Theon knew that his power of compulsion would not work on someone else with king’s blood. Such was a key factor to him being allowed in King Ned’s house: Theon could not sway the Winter Kings with his song, and nor could Robb’s bite turn him into a wolf. While this Red King would be similarly immune to Theon’s voice, these Bastard’s Boys would not be.

Once Theon had gathered enough information to justify it, he would sway the staff and guards of the keep to give him passage. And if he came upon the Red King himself, well… the bastard would fall to Theon’s blade for his crimes.

He arranged a room for himself at another inn, though it operated more as a pub due to the full vacancy of the rooms. Scarcely anyone saw fit to make pilgrimage to such an infamous land. Theon kept his hood low and claimed to be a wandering sword to any who asked after his intentions.

“You won’t find much work here, boy,” the innkeeper had said. “The Red King keeps this land well in order. We’ve no need for sellswords in these parts.”

“It’s a dangerous country,” Theon had replied. “Surely there’s need for extra steel somewhere.”

The man had scoffed. “I’d keep that blade sheathed if I was you. Make no trouble and keep your head down until you pass on through, that’s my advice.”

Theon kept to it for the most part. He watched and he listened, absorbing every scrap of information he could.

The Red King did not often come through town, but he did leave his keep frequently for hunting and to maintain the borders. While officially he and his men sometimes fed upon but did not kill their own people, this was not wholly true. It was not uncommon for people to simply go missing: criminals, intruders, and (most concerning of all) random young women. Though it was never said outright that the Red King was responsible, the smallfolk all took it as a given.

Young maidens of the area had come to be cloistered away and kept hidden in their homes. Otherwise there was no protest to be made; the Red King’s power over his realm was ironclad, with the occasional death or disappearance considered the price to be paid for an otherwise peaceful territory.

Theon found it very easy to believe that such a man would have a hand in Robb’s condition. Even if his late father had been the scheme’s true architect, ‘King’ Ramsay almost definitely knew more about the affair than he let on.

Theon began to stray beyond the walls of the municipality, gradually familiarizing himself with the woods leading towards the Dreadfort.

He found an area at the side of the road that was clearly used as a habitual campsite, with an ashy fire pit dug into the frozen soil. Dry kindling was hard to find in the snowy woods, but Theon was eventually able to cobble a small fire together from sheltered branches that he snapped from their trees like frostbitten fingers. He didn’t need much after all. He required less warmth and light than an average man would, at any rate.

Theon had been sat by the fire, somewhere between dozing and contemplating his next move, when a rustle in the brush drew his attention. He quickly drew his bow in a single practiced motion, eyes trained on the trees.

It wasn’t long before a large black dog padded through the shrubbery, tongue and tail wagging. A few moments later it was followed by a young man: modestly dressed, broad-shouldered, with raven dark hair and haunting blue-grey eyes.

“Begging your pardon mi’lord. I hope we didn’t give you a fright - there’s not many who roam this side of the woods.”

Theon blinked, adjusting his grip on his bow but not lowering it just yet. He silently took in the man’s stained boots and worn breeches.

“Just what are you doing out here?”

“You may call me Reek if it please you, m’lord. ’M just a local trapper, see? I spied your fire through the trees.” The man held up a pair of dead hares, necks broken and bodies limp in his hold. “I’m happy to share, if you’d be so kind as to have us.”

Theon swallowed before slowly lowering his bow, keeping that hound in his periphery. “I suppose there’s room.”

“I much appreciate it.” Reek set to skinning and preparing the hares, wielding the knife as expertly as a trapper would. “If I may ask, what brings a lord such as yourself out here to these parts?”

“What makes you think I’m a lord?”

“That’s a rather fine sword and bow you keep there. And you carry yourself in such a fashion, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Theon made an effort not to preen. “It is no business of yours why I’m here.”

“Of course. I meant no offense,” Reek said, tone more light and friendly than Theon had yet encountered in this region. “I just mean that few would come out this way. If you’re lost, I can help you find your path. I’m very familiar with the woods here.”

Theon paused. A guide could be useful.

He sat up and met Reek’s gaze across the fire.

“ _You will show me through these woods, particularly the untraveled ways to the Dreadfort,_ ” Theon poured his power into his words, voice audibly echoing with the force of it. “You will do so discreetly. You will speak only the truth to me, and tell no one else of our encounter or our arrangement.”

For several long moments Reek only stared at him, eyes eerily blank.

“… Of course my lord,” he said, voice as warm and placid as ever. “I would never lead you astray.”

* * *

Days passed and Theon’s understanding of the local terrain steadily increased.

Reek wound up being very helpful, for he was talkative as well as informed, having grown up in the area all his life.

“The Red Men have very keen senses,” Reek said, gesturing up into the rocks. “Though you may not see them, they may yet be aware of you.”

“You don’t seem especially concerned.”

“Oh I’m no threat to them.”

“All the more likely to be drained by a bloodfiend in the night.”

“I’m flattered to have you concerned after me m’lord,” Reek said with a smile. “You needn’t be.”

Theon didn’t press the issue. The man was clearly so sheltered that he didn’t fully recognize the horrors of his homeland as such. Perhaps leaving him in that ignorance was a mercy.

“I can’t help but worry myself, however. I hope that you are not foolish enough to risk an infiltration of the Dreadfort,” Reek said. “I should so hate to hear that something ill has become of you.”

Reek was also ostensibly too lowborn and unworldly to know what a Siren was. He had never strayed far enough from his birthplace to even recognize an Ironborn when he saw or heard one. The man had only raised both eyebrows when the wind exposed too much of Theon’s alien apparel.

“It’s for swimming in,” Theon had explained as he adjusted his cloak around himself once more. “Reduces the wind and water resistance. For greater speed and dexterity.”

“Ah. I wouldn’t really know m’lord, one can’t do any swimming around here. Even the water that’s not frozen over is just too cold.” Reek squinted at Theon’s form, as if he could see through the cloak to the armored wetsuit underneath. “I don’t suppose the ladies wear that too, do they? A bit obscene, isn’t it?”

Theon had scowled, brushing him aside. “You really don’t know anything.”

Reek had taken it all in stride, likely writing Theon off as just an eccentric outsider. He continued to babble on, especially forthcoming on details pertaining to the Red King.

“He ascended to the throne after his father’s tragic passing m’lord, and has ruled ever since.”

“Was it really?” Theon asked. “Tragic.”

The corner of Reek’s mouth twitched. “He died protecting our lands from the Beast.”

“That ‘beast’ is the Winter King,” Theon said firmly. “And if your late liege had a hand in Robb’s affliction, then he got what he deserved.”

Reek tilted his head curiously. “You speak as if you’re familiar with the bewitched king.”

Theon frowned but said nothing. Eventually Reek shrugged carelessly.

“King Ramsay has assumed sovereignty of these lands. The blessing of the Old Gods is strong in him, and now he controls the Red Men.”

“You mean the Bastard’s Boys.”

Reek’s smile seemed too tight for comfort. “Quite so, m’lord.”

“Hmph. Well if he participated in such a crime against the Winter King, it’ll take more than his gods’ blessing to protect him.”

“Is it really a crime though, m’lord? The Winter and Red Kings are enemies.”

“They brokered a truce against the threat beyond the Northernmost border,” Theon said. “The Night King and his army would destroy us all, and King Roose chose to throw the region into chaos for his own gain. Now his bastard keeps to his own lands, terrorizing his own people and killing innocent women.”

“So many severe assumptions,” Reek said lightly. “Especially when one has no evidence.”

Theon waved him off. “I honestly don’t care what your Red King does to you people or if he wants to withdraw from the war. I’m only here to seek out a cure for Robb’s malady. Once that’s done your king can continue to feign innocence and do as he pleases, it’s of no further consequence to me.”

* * *

Theon soon found himself pursued by strange, disorienting dreams.

The visions were nothing clear or coherent, but a maelstrom of turbulent emotions and sensations: the rattling of chains, the distant howling of wind, a bone-deep chill. He dreamt of rough hands groping at his body, of thick fingers wrapping around his neck. Hot breath that smelled of iron warming his face.

_“Never caught something like you before_ …”

Theon always awoke flushed and panicked, hands reaching for his bow and blade despite the impossibility of wielding both at once.

“Are you unwell m’lord?” Reek asked, so mild and polite. He was laying at the other side of the fire with his hound curled at his side.

“I… no. I’m fine.” Theon cleared his throat. “I haven’t been sleeping right since I left the sea. It’s not abnormal.”

Reek slowly nodded his understanding. “It must be a great sense of duty that’s brought you so far from home.”

Theon leaned against the nearby tree, the bark rough and cold at his back. He felt irrationally fevered in the cold air, and after a moment’s thought he drew his cloak aside. Reek was a simple, soft-hearted creature fully under the thumb of Theon’s song. He was clearly no threat, and it was disarmingly easy to be open with him. Without Robb there was no one with whom Theon could simply speak and be heard.

“My friendship with Robb is one of the few things that are wholly mine,” Theon said as he caught his breath. “Even in my homeland I’m not recognized as prince. Not since I was claimed a Siren. Back there everything I am belongs to the rookery. But Robb didn’t know or understand any of that. With him I was only myself.”

Reek said nothing, only watching Theon with quiet interest. Perhaps it was optimistic to expect a commoner to even understand this much, but that in of itself made it feel all the safer to speak.

“I think it was my sister’s way of an apology,” Theon continued. “Sending me to the North. Our people don’t fancy the mainland but we’ve always hated Northmen the least of the lot. The point was just to get me out of the islands, away from the rookery and the priests and all that. As if it could all be undone and I could still be Prince Theon.”

“And could you?”

“The islands are my home. I have obligations to my sister, my god and my people.” Theon bit his lip. “But when I was with Robb… I never wanted to leave. I hated the idea of going back. It’s terrible.”

He curled in on himself, knees drawing up to his chest.

“Robb asked me to stay. To stand with his family and hold the line against the Night King’s forces. If I’d asked my sister, I think… I _know_ she would have allowed it.” He shook his head. “But I was proud. And ashamed. I couldn’t admit that I was unhappy in my own lands or with my own people. So I left him and pretended that I was glad to do so.”

Marina was right about one thing: Theon was lost. But he could still find his way in the North, he could put things right.

“My queen sister is hero to our people and has no need for me, only guilt and pity. But Robb had need, and I should have been with him.” Theon sighed, eyes closed.

He was a failure of a prince and a failure of a Siren. Being a failure of a friend somehow stung the worst.

There was a sudden warmth bleeding through the material of his suit. He opened his eyes to see Reek kneeling before him, broad hands resting on Theon’s knees.

“Don’t despair, m’lord. You’ve come so far to help King Robb,” he said gently, pale eyes flashing bright in the firelight. “Any man should count himself lucky to claim your loyalty.”

The air caught in Theon’s throat. He felt heat quickly returning to his face.

“It only counts if I succeed,” he said, voice tight.

Reek hands gave a comforting squeeze. “There is still hope. I’m here to help you, after all.”

Something unnamed passed between them, winter grey eyes exploring oceanic teal. Something raw and personal as their breathing mingled together in puffs of steam. Theon slowly reached up until his hands were hovering mere inches over Reek’s own.

Then he coughed and pulled away.

“I… we shouldn’t.”

“Of course.” Reek withdrew, eyes low. “I apologize m’lord, I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s fine.” Theon folded his arms across his chest. “… I appreciate your words.”

Reek retreated back to his original place at his hound’s side.

“I’m sure a prince such as yourself has a bride waiting for him at home, grim place though you tell it to be. More than one, perhaps?”

“No. Sirens don’t marry.” There were some men - even Drowned Priests - who claimed that they died virgins, though Theon knew for a fact that was absurdly untrue. “But if all goes well in this endeavor I may still be wed to Princess Sansa.”

In another world he might have humored saving Reek from his cold, provincial little life and taking him back to the islands to wed as a salt groom - a practice that was more rare but far from strange amongst the Ironborn. However he knew it was not something Sansa or her family would appreciate.

“I see. A fine match, m’lord.”

Theon nodded. “I hear that the Red King himself is somehow married.”

“Oh yes,” Reek said, seemingly glad for the change of subject. “The King has taken three brides for himself: Myranda, Violet and Tansy. Beautiful women to be sure, though I don’t think you’d find their dispositions agreeable.”

Theon understood that multi-marriage was not unheard of in the North. In such harsh winter a man may even be considered chivalrous if he married and thus rescued as many women from starvation as he was able.

“Three queens. Sounds crowded.”

Unlike the distinction between rock and salt wives, winter brides were generally equals with priority given in order of union. An invitation for dysfunction, to Theon’s ears. How did they guard against killing each other's children?

“Well I wouldn’t say they’re his _queens_ really,” Reek said thoughtfully. “They do his bidding as needed, but wield no political powers.”

“Meaning that they’re low-born whores.” Theon snorted. “Concubines who call themselves queen to a bastard who calls himself king. How fitting.”

Reek’s expression had gone eerily impassive.

“You should be careful when you say such things, my lord. You never know who or what might be listening out in the woods.”

Theon waved him off even as a chill worked its way down his spine. There was no one watching them but the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the setting I made things a mix between the Age of Heroes (circa first Long Night obviously) and some irl Celtic/Norse folklore, mainly:  
> \- Werewolves of Ossory: Tribes of werewolves that men would call upon for aid during war.  
> \- Abhartach: A hilariously hard to kill undead Irish king/chieftain who made his people cut themselves so he could drink their blood.  
> \- Valkyries: Odin’s elite shieldmaidens/reapers who escorted the souls of warriors to the Valhalla.  
> 
> 
> I also took copious inspiration from the _World of Ice and Fire_ book, particularly everything relating to the Grey King or the Deep Ones. The Ironborn are canonically vikings+Cult of Cthulhu/Shadow over Innsmouth, and more should take advantage of that fact imho.


	2. Chapter 2

There was really no overstating how much Theon hated the woods.

“Are you sure this is right?”

Maybe with better light it would have been more tolerable, but as it was he couldn’t make any sense of anything. The trees pressed in on all sides, chokingly close. With the whole world blanketed top to bottom in white it was disorienting to navigate. Unseen birds and woodland creatures mockingly crooned or chattered from the shadows.

Reek spared Theon an offhand glance. “Of course, m’lord. What’s wrong?”

“There’s no way we’ve been this way before.” Theon rotated in place to fully scan his surroundings. “Nothing’s familiar.”

“Those are our tracks from earlier,” Reek pointed out two sets of footprints in the snow off, leading in a different direction. “See? There’s nothing to fear.”

Theon wasn’t so sure. Snow would be falling once more any minute now and would conceal all trails left behind. How was he supposed to find his way to and from the Dreadfort by himself when the time came? They’d been exploring for three days and he was still completely at his guide’s mercy.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have gone off the path.”

“M’lord, please.” Reek gently took Theon by the elbow and pulled him further into the trees. “I know these woods better than anyone. And you told me to show you the unseen ways, did you not?”

“I… I did.” Theon swallowed. “But… perhaps we should return to town and retire.”

Away from the reach of the city bells it had become quite impossible to tell how long they’d been walking for. Sirens were a resilient breed, but Theon’s thoughts had regardless begun to stray to his made bed and warm hearth at the inn.

“We’re quite a ways from the city gates now,” Reek said. “My cabin is closer. We’ll be out of the chill soon enough.”

Theon had a greater resistance to cold than most, but even the choppy black waves of the islands were not below the freezing point. The abundant ice and snow were starting to grate on him, and he couldn’t help but wonder how a mere mortal man could hold up so well. Perhaps Northmen simply had it in their blood to endure such things. Surely they had to survive this wintry hellscape somehow.

“Alright. I suppose.”

Reek gave him a warm smile, like this lowborn trapper was so _proud_ of him for holding out. Theon had to physically bite his tongue to keep from saying something cutting. The man had been so helpful and polite, after all. Of course he wouldn’t be patronizing to his betters on purpose.

Theon would let it slide. He was sometimes magnanimous in that way.

The log cabin emerged from the shadows as they neared the riverside. It was a small, single-level thing that looked as dark and cold as the rest of the landscape, but it was still shelter. Reek led the way up the creaky porch.

“I know it’s not much, but please make yourself at home,” he said, holding the door open. It was pitch black inside. “Watch your step.”

“I see just fine,” Theon said irritably, even though it was only half true.

His vision was always quick to adjust underwater, but on land it was less consistent. He could still feel his pupils dilating to absorb as much light as they could.

The cabin was rather barren. Hardly lived in from what one could tell. It only contained the darkened silhouette of a bed, a fireplace, and a table that seemingly doubled as a workbench. The air smelled of blood and tanned animal hides.

The only door swung shut, blocking out the wind and snow as well as most of the moonlight. In sheer darkness the room seemed both too big and too small. There was only the muffled shriek of the wind between the trees and the heavy panting of Reek’s dog as its claws clattered over the floor. The beast shook itself with a splatter of melted snow before dropping itself onto a little mound of fur scraps.

“You live here?” Theon failed to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

“It’s a place to lay my head.”

The words were said almost against his neck, making him jump - he hadn’t heard Reek get that close. Theon spun around in time to catch of glimpse of a grin in the dark, which could only have been a trick of the shadows. Reek would not be so brazen as to laugh at him, surely.

“I do admit to spending more of my time out-of-doors than in, however,” Reek continued, so far into Theon’s space they were practically sharing heat.

“I can’t imagine why,” Theon said, leaning back slightly.

“I’m sure you will get used to it, m’lord.”

“Not likely. I don’t plan on staying that long.”

“Oh?” Reek took a step forward and Theon’s breath caught. “You think the Dreadfort will be so easy to infiltrate? Even if you know the way, there is no access without alerting the guards.”

“Do not concern yourself. Only he with king’s blood can refuse me, and those are few and far between,” Theon said. “Men always give me what I want.”

Reek had looked at him neutrally, a curious little tilt to his head.

“Is that so?”

“Hm. Although the less I have to enthrall, the better. One of them ought to know where Robb’s cure is being kept. Once I have it I will be on my way.”

“Back to your islands?”

“I… no. I don’t think so,” Theon shifted uncomfortably. “Once Robb is cured I think I will do what I should have from the start. I’ll stay at his side and help his family combat the Others.”

Had he not already given everything to the islands, to the Drowned God? Had he not sacrificed his birthright, his body, and his innocence to end his father’s war? Robb had always been a brother to him in all but blood. Theon was now obligated to be a brother to him as well.

“You talk very fondly of the Winter King,” Reek said, sounding almost accusing as he advanced further.

He had been effectively herding Theon deeper into the cabin until finally the backs of his legs hit the bed, sending him toppling backwards onto the mattress. It was straw, but padded and blanketed in various animal furs.

“H-he is dear to me,” Theon said, not sure why he was even entertaining this conversation.

He couldn’t explain it, the way Reek so effortlessly put him off-balance. Maybe it was the woods; the calls of the wild and the pressing darkness outside, that had already put Theon on edge and on the defensive.

“I’m not alone in it. Most everyone who meets Robb adores him,” Theon said, trying to swallow his bitterness. “I was always jealous when we were boys. Robb had so many people who loved him, and so many to give his love to, but I had only him. It made me selfish.”

“Seems like a sad way of living,” Reek said, planting his hands on the mattress on either side of Theon’s hips. “Settling for the leftovers of another’s affection.”

Theon clenched his fists and said nothing.

“If it were me, I would not settle for anything less than my beloved’s whole heart and soul,” the words were low, intense. “I wouldn’t let a moment pass that they were not thinking of me.”

Theon’s mouth went dry. “That… that is hardly realistic.”

“Oh, but you’re a prince are you not?” There was an odd, almost mocking lilt to the words. “A _Siren_ too. No man can refuse you, you said.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying-“

“I imply nothing. I’m only curious. Have you never used that talent of yours for… personal reasons?” Reek asked, voice all too innocent. “Or were your looks always enough?”

It took a moment for Theon to find his voice. It would be a lie to say he’d never abused his power but that was his right. He had earned it. He had never forced a maiden into his bed, but sometimes they played too coy for too long (“ _The priests say we shouldn’t m’lord, that your body belongs to the Drowned God-_ “) and he only compelled them to honesty to save time. It was no crime.

Admittedly sometimes Theon had mused on what he might do if Robb were not immune to his song. Oh, to persuade him to set Jon aside even just for a little while; to have attention undivided amongst such a large and demanding household.

“Even if I could do that to Robb, I wouldn’t!” Theon shook himself free of his greedy fantasies. “It’s not honourable. And it doesn’t count if it isn’t real.”

"You charmed me." Reek’s chest pressed against Theon’s own. “Does this not feel real?”

He was momentarily struck speechless, heart pounding loudly in his veins.

“Relax,” Reek purred. “I would never overstep my bounds, my lord. I just think it’s a sorry thing, to accept the lukewarm attentions of he most dear to you.”

“Robb loves me,” Theon said uneasily. “Perhaps he does not love me most or best in the world, but he is a great man. It is more than I have found anywhere else.”

“Maybe more just hadn’t yet found _you_.” Reek’s breath was warm on Theon’s ear. “It is a wide world. And fate is never certain in winter.”

Reek ran his fingertips from Theon’s cheek and down the arch where neck met shoulder, where he rubbed at the collar of the suit.

“… This is a rather odd fabric.”

Theon weakly shrugged. It was something between rubber, silk and mesh; smooth but textured with innumerable, infinitesimal scales. Even his boots were odd, being at once both metallic and leathery.

“I don’t really know what any of it is. The Deep Ones make it for us. It’s not as uncomfortable as it looks.” He paused. “It’s also durable to the elements, as well as to most weapons.”

“You don’t say.” Reek withdrew slightly with huff. “… How does it open?”

Theon tensed.

“I just mean,” Reek said, fingers still dancing at his neck. “it seems like relieving yourself would be difficult.”

“There’s a seam.” Theon glanced him over warily. “It’s not very easy to find.”

“Ah.”

Reek continued to probe at Theon’s throat with increasingly insistent, searching movements until the Siren could take no more of it.

“I don’t suppose you know where I can send a raven out?” Theon blurted, trying not to sound too desperate. “I still need to write my sister.”

Reek stilled. “Your sister, m’lord?”

“I was meant to tell her when I arrived. I put it off. I always do,” Theon said. “If I don’t put her mind at ease she’ll surely send another set of Sirens after me, and I don’t want them to interfere.”

“… I see.”

Yara was so contrary: fussing at him from a distance but barely managing to look at him when he stood before her. While Reek was most definitely illiterate, surely he could tell if there was a merchant’s station somewhere. A town that large had to have one.

“They don’t understand why I’m doing this. They’ll crash in without any sense of subtlety and ruin everything, because they don’t care,” Theon muttered. “I don’t need them. Robb was my friend and this is my mission. I can do this myself.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Reek said, withdrawing from Theon’s space with a hint of reluctance. “You shouldn’t leave your sister worrying.”

“She’s used to it.”

“I'll take you tomorrow. And once that task is done,” Reek squeezed Theon’s arm. “I will show you the passage to the Dreadfort.”

* * *

The hearth was small, more like a little stove, but the light set sparks off in Theon’s eyes once it finally ignited.

He had twisted out of his boots and tried to ignore Reek’s curious eyes as they watched him fiddle with the clasps. The man’s apparent interest in knowing how his armor came off was at once flattering and disconcerting. Theon had been on the receiving end of men’s lust before. Usually men who had an unhealthy, offensive interest in Sirens, which had always been more insult than compliment.

Reek wasn’t that way. He couldn’t be. He was just a lowborn mountaineer with rough hands and humble means. He had been only polite, modest and helpful. Any unease Theon felt in his presence was a consequence of being in such a strange and bleak new land.

“Why don’t you just live in town?” Theon asked, if only to break the silence.

“This is where the work is,” Reek said simply. “And truth be told, I find it peaceful. Just me, nature and the beasts.”

“If you say so,” Theon said doubtfully. “You’re out here alone then. No family?”

“Not anymore.”

There was a pause before Reek gestured at the fire. “I can take the hearth if it please you, m’lord. I’m used to making camp in the outdoors, this is no trouble for me.”

Theon glanced at the bed. He then looked at Reek skeptically. Durable though Northmen apparently were, his clothes were clearly wet with melted snow. In the closed quarters of the lit cabin he also looked even paler than before, practically a ghost.

A guide was no good to Theon if he froze… but it was also simply improper for a prince to take the floor.

“There’s room enough for two,” he said stiffly. “It’s fine.”

“Are you su-“

“I said it’s _fine._ ”

Men shared bedding all the time at sea, where one could hardly set a fire below deck to escape the cold. This was the long winter and Theon was not some fragile maid.

Reek slowly nodded, looking at him with unreadable eyes. “As you say, my lord.”

The bed was not as large as Theon had originally judged, or perhaps it was that Reek was a larger man than first estimated. Theon didn’t say anything about it. It was deeply unlike him to be weak-kneed or self-conscious, and he didn’t know what it was about Reek that inspired these traits in him. He shifted between the furs and tried to look as unconcerned as possible. He was sure it was working perfectly.

The man was a good deal better-fed than one might expect someone of his station to be. His body was incredibly solid beside Theon’s own, almost making the Siren feel small in comparison. He only smelled of the forest, of musk and pine and resin. His body was also a lot warmer than Theon had anticipated.

“Are you fevered?”

“I don’t think so, m’lord.”

Theon coughed. “Are you sure we shouldn’t… I don’t know, sleep in shifts?”

Reek laughed. “For what purpose? Nothing gets through these borders.”

“Except the bloodfiends.”

Theon wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or if Reek had actually moved closer.

“I know the woods unsettle you m’lord, but you can rest easy. There is nothing out there you need fear.”

Theon scowled. “The woods do not unsettle me.”

“Of course m’lord,” and there was that _tone_ again, “I’m certain it’s nothing compared to the tides you contend with in your homeland.”

“Indeed,” Theon snapped. “Have you ever even been to the sea before?”

“I’ve traded beyond town on occasion. The Red King’s dominion extends from mountains to coast,” Reek said mildly. “It’s not safe to travel anywhere else. Too many wights, grumkins and other things that come in the night.”

“So I’ve heard,” Theon said wryly. “Well the western seaboard is not like the eastern one here - the ocean is completely uncharted beyond our islands. Wild water of the purest kind. It’s the closest any man can get to my god before meeting him for good.”

“Without becoming like you, you mean.”

Theon frowned. “… Quite so.”

There was a moment’s pause as he tried to relax himself into the bedding, to ignore the wind and woodland sounds outside the cabin’s four walls. He put thoughts of the ocean in his mind instead. The waves were a more familiar danger, almost calming, and the source of many bittersweet memories.

“My mother used to keep me from the water. She said it wasn’t safe.” Theon murmured, partially to himself. “Lot of good it did me in the end.”

 _You’re too comely to stare at the sea,_ his mother would say before pulling him further from the shore. _One day some beast is going to see and want to steal you away as its salt groom._

Theon had protested - he would have to sail someday. As a man grown he would be the Captain Reaper, a royal defender of the islands. It was near criminal to keep an Ironborn man from the sea.

 _Yes_ , his mother had said with some reluctance. _But for now you must leave such things to your brothers._

And he had followed her lead back to the castle, ignoring the call of the ocean behind him.

“No one really knows what happens to the men and women the Deep Ones grab off the rocks,” he said. “Some think they’re taken below and drowned. Others claim that they’re kept in undersea castles to be mated and bred forever.”

Grim prospects all around. Theon supposed the mainland thought it some kind of poetic justice: the Ironborn victimized by the very practices the Deep Ones taught them to use on other peoples.

“The rumors are much the same regarding what the Children of the Forest do with the crannogmen further south,” Reek said with a shrug. “Although some say it’s the other way around, and the Marsh Kings are actively seducing fairies for brides.”

“Truly it’s a strange world we’re in,” Theon said. “Gods know what’ll remain of it if this winter ever ends.”

“Do you think it will end?”

“Maybe. Hopefully. Perhaps not in our lifetimes, though.”

A shame, for more than just the obvious reasons. The Red Kings’ power relied on the people’s fear and need for protection against the monsters of the long winter. Once it ended ( _if_ it ended), their line would either have to bend the knee to the Winter Kings, or be decimated.

Theon placed his hopes in the latter.

* * *

He had another strange dream that night.

It was pitch dark, or perhaps his eyes were covered. He couldn’t check, his wrists weighed down with steel shackles that were cold as ice. He was lying on a hard surface when he felt the air stir in the room, a presence circling him. A gloved hand ran up his thigh, bringing attention to the fact that he was bare.

Theon’s heart jumped. He had always been especially liberal with his sexuality, but the Ironborn women always had a general idea of what to expect - they knew that he was changed. To their credit the Winterfell whores had been quick to adapt, even reveling in the novelty of him.

Theon was not shy and he was not ashamed.

Thus it was a profoundly strange thing for him, wishing to not be seen. He had never felt so vulnerable before, so _exposed_ , so desperate to cover himself and hide what made him different.

_ “Isn’t this so much better?” _

The words washed over him slowly like ice water, cloying and dangerous.

_ “You were practically bare before anyway.” _

Suddenly there was a cold kiss of steel running teasingly across the planes of his stomach. A giddy chuckle resounded at the sight of his muscles jumping beneath the blade.

_ “Clothing’s not meant for creatures like you.” _

The knife’s touch turned biting.

_ “Nor is mercy.” _

Theon awoke in a cold sweat that morning, panting and gasping for air. He had to detangle himself from Reek’s warmth, having unconsciously sought it in the night.

“More bad dreams, m’lord?”

Theon sat on the edge of the bed, struggling to catch his breath. He shrugged Reek’s hand from his shoulder.

“How long were we asleep?”

“Hard to say. Judging by my girl, a few hours at least.” Reek nodded at his hound, which was restlessly circling by the door. “She wants to hunt.”

Theon rubbed his hands across his face before nodding. “We’ve rested enough. I must head into town and send word to my sister.”

“And then?” There was an almost excited air to the words.

“Then you will take me to scout the Dreadfort.”

* * *

Reek only accompanied Theon as far as the very edge of town. He gave some instructions to where Theon could send a raven, though there were none that flew directly to the islands. The letter would have to make major stopovers in White Harbor and Greywater, at least.

Theon didn’t write anything emotional or profound. It wasn’t their way. He was here, he was alive, he was making progress, do not send more Sirens. Done.

Yara’s reply, when it came, would be much the same in tone: what are you doing, when are you coming home, don’t try anything stupid (even though you probably already have). Their shared allergy to sentiment was where the family resemblance jumped out the most.

Theon watched the raven take flight and disappear against the permanently blackened sky. Scarcely a moment later he heard the bells ringing across town.

He frowned. Surely it was not the turn of the hour already?

Theon reached the bottom of the stairs just as the bells went quiet. With them, all sound seemed to be smothered from the world. The office at the base of the tower was empty and shuttered. He had to unlock it from within just to get out.

The world outside was as barren and silent as a grave. The town had never been an especially lively one but it was large and there had always been _someone_ bustling about. Though the night sky was unchanged, it could not be past midday. Yet the stores were shut, the market empty. Not a soul in sight.

Theon’s footsteps were almost unbearably loud on the cobbled stone streets.

“Hello?” He swore his voice even echoed.

In an instant that town had become like a ruin, a crypt. Stoic and lifeless.

He made his way past the boarded homes and darkened windows, the click of his boots on stone the only clear sound. The air was moved by a faint breeze that whistled between the buildings - a call that would never even be noticeable under normal circumstances. Even the birds had gone silent.

Theon approached the inn and found its heavy oak doors to be locked. He banged on them insistently.

“Oi! I don’t know what the jape is but I’m paying for a room here. Open up!” There was no answer, though Theon swore he heard a rustle from within. “I know you’re in there!”

They ignored him.

Theon stared at the door in disbelief for a moment, trying to figure out his next move. Surely if the town was under attack, guards would be swarming the place. There was literally nothing.

He wandered directionless through the dark torchlit streets. He had already finished his errand; perhaps the thing to do was leave town entirely and try to find his way back to Reek’s cottage. It hadn’t yet snowed again so the tracks would still be there to help him find his way. Only… they hadn’t gone the straightest route, had they? Reek had seemed intent on showing him everything of note in the forest, but was so scatterbrained that things didn’t always occur to him in order. Thus their exploration had involved a bit of backtracking and meandering and cycling-round. It had left Theon’s internal map even more confused.

As he passed an alleyway he thought he saw something in his periphery. He turned, eager to see another person, only to find nothing there. He uneasily continued his path down the street. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end.

With steady hands he unclasped his bow from where it was strapped to his back, his fingers carefully withdrawing an arrow from the quiver at his hip. He might not know what was happening but there was no such thing as paranoia in the long winter.

He flinched at the sound of displaced air, a sudden rush of wind the next street over. His breath had begun to materialize as even thicker puffs of steam. He wondered if it was his imagination or if the air had actually gotten colder.

A creak on a nearby rooftop almost had him loosing an arrow into the shingles. He eyed the building warily, grip tight on his weapon as he backed away. A sudden breeze ruffled his hair from behind.

“Hello.”

Theon spun about, nearly shooting the young maiden between the eyes.

She stared him down with a smile, unblinking and unconcerned with the weapon pointed in her face. The first thing Theon noticed about her was that she was quite pretty. Blonde and hazel-eyed. Next he noticed that she was not wearing very significant clothing. The fabric was yellow and gauzy, in some places sheer.

“Uh.”

Her eyes flashed unnaturally in the torchlight, almost distracting him from the soft sound of footfalls at his back.

“You’re new.”

The second arrival was another woman, also blonde but with blue eyes and a softer face. Her dress, if it could be generously called that, was a pale lavender.

Theon struggled to put distance between them whilst keeping them both in his sights.

“Who the hell are you?”

The women both grinned, like he’d just said something amusing. It pulled his gaze to the wicked points of their teeth.

_Oh._

“The stranger doesn’t know who we are, Violet.” The first woman tsked before turning to him. “You’re our guest. The guest of our lord husband.”

“Haven’t you been enjoying his hospitality?” The second asked teasingly. “Because you’re being _very_ rude.”

Theon nearly released his draw when his back nudged into yet another body. He flinched violently, a vice grip locking around his neck as well as one of his arms. The third woman tugged him against her chest and inhaled deeply into his neck.

“You smell strange,” she snarled. “And you smell like _him._ ”

Theon had just about met his limit. He could feel his skin actually threatening to bruise beneath the woman’s inhuman grasp.

“ _Get away from me!”_

All at once the brides recoiled from him as if burned, hissing and baring their teeth. Theon scrambled a greater distance from them still, not sure which of them to aim at first.

The third woman was the only brunette, her eyes an earthy jade that complimented the pale green of her silks. She was looking at Theon with the most venom and thus he fixed his arrow on her. She ignored his bow as if it were no more than a toy.

“What did you do?” Before Theon’s eyes her nails stretched and morphed into vicious talons. “Will you tell me? Or will I have to carve it out of you?”

Internally he was running his options through his mind. Killing a bride would absolutely alert and anger the Red King, who would then scramble his Red Men on the offensive. Theon’s chances of quietly infiltrating, enthralling a few guards and slipping away with the cure would go up in flames.

“Perhaps I will anyway,” she continued, assessing him with disdain. “You look like a screamer.”

The brides were closing in on him like sharks.

“ _Stop_!”

They all halted, looking confused. For a moment they all just stared at each other, no one knowing how to proceed.

“Our lord has been gone for days now,” the green bride said. “What have you done?”

“Are you a witch?” The one in purple - Violet - was looking at him appraisingly.

“… Sure.”

And then he shot her.

He didn’t wait to see what the damage would be, turning heel and running the instant he heard the screech of anger and pain. It should be a non-lethal hit, especially given whatever the hell bloodfiends were made of. He just needed to get away, probably lay low in the woods… a wandering witch was a lot less damning to the mission than a royally-dispatched Siren.

It was still far from ideal. What the hell were the brides doing, descending upon the town to feed at midday? Were they searching for their missing husband? If the Red King was away from the keep, perhaps there was no better time to strike. Theon could breach and enthrall the fort before making away with the cure, hopefully being long gone by the time the King returned.

His thoughts were interrupted by a heavy impact colliding with him from the side, launching him through a nearby market stall like it was nothing more than kindling.

He rolled across the stone and splinters, gathering his wits with a shake of his head. He’d just about managed when a clawed hand grabbed him by the front of his cloak, lifting him to his toes. Furious green eyes stared into his own.

“Looks like I’ll have to bleed the answers out of you,” she said, faux sweet.

“You always take first bite, Myranda,” the girl in yellow complained from where Theon couldn’t see her, her voice bored. “Why don’t you let someone else have a turn?”

Myranda’s face twitched. “It’s my right. I’m the first wife, I get first take. You’re the one who needs to know your place, Tansy.”

“So you keep saying,” Tansy drawled. “Careful now. Someone might think you actually feel threatened.”

Myranda’s gaze snapped to the other bride, eyes aflame. “ _Threa_ -“

Theon used the distraction to reach for the dagger at his hip, a gift from his sister carved from one of the Nagga’s teeth. He slashed wildly, slicing Myranda diagonally from shoulder to across her chest. She dropped him instantly, clutching at where her dress was bleeding from green to ruddy scarlet.

“You insolent _cunt_!” A blow from her arm felt like a hammer strike, toppling him back to the ground.

Theon lay there for a moment, head spinning. He could see the blurry image of Myranda running her fingers over the injury, looking somewhere between confused and fascinated.

Tansy drifted closer, brow furrowed. “You’re not healing.”

“No…” Myranda’s thoughtful gaze fell upon the dagger, which had clattered to the ground.

She picked it up carefully, a faraway look in her earthy eyes.

“What is it?”

Myranda didn’t seem to hear.

“… You’ve always thought you were prettier than me, didn’t you?” She asked, turning the dagger over in her hands.

“What?”

Tansy didn’t get the chance to say anything more before Myranda was slitting her throat.

Theon watched as blood poured in rivers down her slashed neck. Yellow silk turned to rust as it blossomed down her front, puddling at her feet. He couldn’t help but feel a little bit shaken as the lifeless body crumpled to the ground.

“Well,” Violet said, bloodied and with a dripping arrow in hand, but otherwise looking no worse for wear. “I’m surprised you waited so long to do that. She was insufferable.”

“I just wish I could’ve done it slow.” Myranda turned to Theon with smug elation. “As for you…”

She tossed the dagger so that it skittered at his feet.

“Oh, _gods_!” Her voice was painfully loud in the otherwise silent square, echoing across the buildings in raw dismay. “You’ve _killed_ her!”

“How could you?” Violet asked tearfully. “After everything we’ve done for this kingdom?”

“What- that-“

“The Red King will hear of this,” Myranda said, doing a remarkable job of weeping on demand. “He’ll have your _skin_.”

There was a whirl of wind and snow, forcing Theon’s eyes shut. When he blinked them open he found himself alone in the town square.

Minutes passed. Slowly, gradually, doors began to open around him, releasing a growing trickle of horrified, angry-looking townsfolk.

* * *

Theon was bound to a stone slab in full view of one of those ghastly heart trees. He’d heard that the Northmen sometimes practiced human sacrifice to their Old Gods, though he’d never wanted to see the proof for himself.

Not that it was the Old Gods who were likely to come for him.

Those filthy goddamn peasants had taken his bow as well as his blade, the former carved from Ygg’s wood and the latter forged from sky iron. Unforgivable.

The dagger they had left with Tansy’s cooling corpse as ‘evidence’, too far out of reach to be useful but not far enough for comfort. Theon twisted and struggled against his restraints, his bindings creaking with the strain of his captivity. He knew he could get free eventually, but whether he did so in time was another matter.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and did a full-body flinch.

“Easy now. It’s only me.”

Theon instantly relaxed against the slab. Reek’s pale eyes were roaming over him, taking in his state before almost incidentally finding Tansy’s body a few paces away.

“You killed one of the Red Brides.” Like a weather observation.

“I did not!” Theon snapped once freed from the wet gag in his mouth. “And even if I had, you think they’d be fucking grateful for it.”

“You risked bringing the King’s wrath down upon the town,” Reek said, sounding far too calm and unhurried for the circumstances. “They are ensuring their own survival.”

“Well bloody good for them!” Theon growled, writhing impatiently. “Do you mind…?”

Reek plucked the knife from where Tansy’s lifeless hands lay clasped upon her chest and saw to cutting Theon’s binds. It was a wave of relief when the ropes fell free.

Theon leaned on Reek for support as blood flow returned to his limbs. “What about…”

He gestured at the body.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Reek took Theon’s hand and pulled him further into the woods. “The dogs will find her eventually.”

They plunged into the darkened forest, boots trampling through the snow. Reek was bound by Theon’s song to take him to the Dreadfort, and though Theon liked to think their rapport was genuine, once they arrived there was a chance Reek would need to be sung to again. He couldn’t have his guide bailing out to ‘ensure his own survival’.

“I think the Red King has left the keep,” Theon said between breaths, struggling to keep up as the snow piled higher and the mountain pass grew steep. “The brides were looking for him.”

“It’s not unusual for him to go out.”

“They seemed insistent. Maybe he didn’t alert them first.”

“He’s the King,” Reek said, appearing irritated. “He doesn’t have to tell them anything.”

Theon’s next statement was cut off by a sudden gust of wind, howling in the distance and shaking snow from the trees.

“In here!”

Reek pulled Theon into a gap in the rocks. Together they ducked into the small cavern, pressed together in the dark. They listened as the gale passed, plowing further into the forest.

“If the King has gone away, it’ll be a good time for us to make for the fortress,” Theon whispered. “After I get the cure, when I leave… I’ll take you with me, of course. I won’t leave you to face the consequences. I can take you to the islands, or tell Robb how you helped me-“

“That’s so generous, my lord.” Reek said, although Theon wasn’t sure about his tone of voice. If he didn’t know better it sounded somewhere between bored and amused.

“…Right. Reek,” he said cautiously. “… Are you fucking one of the Red King’s wives?”

Reek looked at him with an expression that spelled genuine bewilderment.

“Myranda smelled you on me,” Theon said. “And I know a jilted lover when I see one.”

Reek’s brow shot upward, looking for all the world like he was struggling to contain his laughter.

“Oh my _lord,_ ” he said, winter eyes flashing. “I don’t think I will be getting bored with you anytime soon.”

Theon frowned in confusion. “Excuse me?”

"Did you send your raven?" Reek asked sweetly, ignoring him. "Is your queen sister coming for you?"

Theon felt a cold, creeping horror take hold of his chest.

“Poor thing. There isn’t anything that hunts Sirens where you’re from, is there?” Reek asked idly, pressing Theon against the cavern wall. “You’re used to being on top. To not being afraid.”

“I don’t-“

“I only say so because you’re a very deep sleeper,” Reek said, hand roaming up to grasp Theon’s throat, fingers toying with the seam of his suit. “One never sees that in the prey animals that know they’re prey.”

“ _Whatever you’re doing, stop_!” Theon commanded, his voice shaking with power.

“I don’t think I will. I’ve enjoyed our time together prince, truly. It’s been very engaging. What with your sad stories of your strange homeland. Your _pining_ for the Stark beast.”

Theon’s mind was faltering, his body frozen. It didn’t make sense. The only way his song didn’t work was if-

“But I think this game has run its course,” Ramsay said, slowly peeling Theon’s suit open. “Time to go home.”

Then there were teeth buried in his neck, breaking through his flesh, wet heat laving over his skin, and the world went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys remember when Theon was so goddamn dense that he canonically fell for the SAME trick (false identity ploy) TWICE in quick succession from two different people, one of whom was his own flesh and blood sister? I remember. The North remembers.  
> Pepperidge Farm remembers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back and Happy New Year!  
> So this may go on to 5 chapters, to the surprise of no one who knows me.

Things became a blur.

Theon’s blood was an insistent and steady rhythm in his ears, crashing so hard and fast that his addled mind was awash with images of the sea. The world tilted and wobbled formlessly around him and he could almost believe he was on his ship, gently rocked by the waves.

The faraway voices ruined the illusion somewhat, creeping in during his more conscious moments.

“-was a longer hunt than your usual.”

“Yes, well I didn’t realize my keep was manned by children who needed me to coddle them at all hours.”

“It’s no matter to me your grace, it’s your wives that’ve been up in arms all week. What’s that you’ve got there?”

The world gave another nauseating flip.

“Isn’t it _lovely_? I found it wandering about outside and just _had_ to have it.”

The sound of footsteps, a new voice.

“Another toy for you, Ramsay? What happened to the last?”

“Mind your tongue. This one’s not ‘another’ anything, it’s special.”

“His blood doesn’t smell quite right to me, but as it please you…”

Once again the room began to sway, and Theon was pulled back into the darkness.

* * *

A storm had raged on the night Theon was sacrificed to the Drowned God.

The Deep Ones had taken him beneath the waves, so far into the cold and black that the pressure alone had nearly crushed the dwindling air from his lungs. Just when he thought he would die before even reaching the temple, light and life had flooded back into him.

He came to on wet stone, so cold it felt like ice. He looked up in time to see the hulking, slimy figures of his captors slipping beneath the surface of a dark pool.

“I expected Princess Yara.”

The words had echoed, resounding off the tunnel walls. The stone was carved and smoothed into a graceful arch with intricate alien patterns on the walls, but the air was thick with the smell of damp and sea brine. The passage was lit with the glow of luminescent algae and worms on the dripping ceiling.

A Siren was sat cross-legged on the floor a few paces away, watching Theon shiver at the edge of the pool.

“I suppose the Deep Ones know better than I what the temple will accept,” she said, idly rotating the shortspear the rest upon her lap. “But I don’t expect the lords above will be pleased to learn that they are just as viable for sacrifice as their sisters.”

“S-sirens are always women,” Theon said, trembling with fear and wet chill. “They are the spearwives and attendants of the Drowned God.”

“Maybe so,” the Siren said. “But who is to say that our liege must favor only women? Even the captains may claim salt grooms if that is their choosing.”

She rose to her feet and extended a hand to him.

“Enough. On your feet, child. Your father has drenched the waters of our islands in blood as the price for his folly, and now it is your blood demanded as the price of our peace.” She must have seen the fear in his eyes, the thoughts he had of diving back into the pool and taking his chances with the sea. Her gaze softened before going cold once again. “Do not make this harder than it need be.”

He took her hand, so much larger and stronger than his own, and was soon being firmly led down the passageway.

“Where are we?”

“There are undersea cave tunnels beneath and between much of the islands,” the Siren said, unearthly ocean eyes distant and assessing. “Most are completely submerged, but this one holds air. You will get to see the rest of them if you survive.”

“Will I survive?”

“Only our god can say.” She glanced back at him. “All Ironborn hail from the Deep Ones on account of the early unions with the First Men long ago. Their blood is in your veins. The temple merely awakens it. The process is painful and many do not endure.”

It was nothing Theon hadn’t known already. He swallowed thickly.

“I am not weak.”

“Good. No Siren is.” She paused to tug his shirt from his clammy skin, the heavy velvet waterlogged and freezing him all the quicker. She deposited it on the cavern floor like common rubbish. “Take heart in knowing your blood is purer than most. Salt children and those otherwise born from outsiders tend to have the worst fortune. However your heritage is Ironborn and noble on both sides, undiluted across generations, and you may take to the ritual better than others before you.”

They came to a stop outside a set of ornately carved doors. When Theon placed his hand upon it, he felt the stone thrumming beneath his palm with a strange sort of power.

“Even if I’m a man?”

“Perhaps. But know this: if you emerge from this temple you will be only a Siren,” she said. “You will be no man and you will be no prince. That is your fate to accept, and clinging to such things will bring you only sorrow.”

* * *

Theon awoke feeling dizzy and ill, be it from pain or blood loss he could not be sure. His body ached all over, bringing attention to how he had been cruelly strapped upon a wooden saltire cross. His suit was half-undone, the seam parted down to his sternum. The side of his neck was sore and stiff with dry blood.

The chamber was windowless, cloaked in shadow, and though the wind could be heard its howl was distant and stifled.

“You should have stayed in the ocean, guppy.” A voice said mildly from the darkness, circling him unseen. “How can your sea god hear you now?”

“My god is a god of war,” Theon said through grit teeth. “Let me up and you’ll see.”

Ramsay chuckled warmly, which made his sudden appearance and the heavy blow to Theon’s gut so jarring.

“Here’s your first lesson, prince. The first of many, I imagine,” Ramsay said gently as Theon heaved and choked. “You do not threaten, refuse or disrespect me in my house. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Understood?”

“You had best kill me now,” Theon gasped harshly for breath, eyes watering. “Elsewise I am going to be gutting you myself before this ordeal is through. I’ll use my nails if I have to.”

Ramsay tsked, moonlight eyes gleaming. “Already breaking the rules are we? You’re slow to learn.”

He pressed deep into Theon’s space, breath warm on his cheek.

“I’m not bothered.” He stroked Theon’s fingers softly. “We have all the time in the world.”

And one would believe it, from the way Ramsay carried on that evening.

It was with agonizing slowness that he set himself to his task, thin blade working each of Theon’s nails from their fleshbeds. With steel tongs he mercilessly slid them free, one by one.

Theon held out. He did not beg. The tears flowed freely because he simply could not stop them, but no pleas escaped his lips. He nearly bit through his tongue, swallowing blood along with the pain, but Ramsay forced a leather gag between his teeth before he could do any unauthorized damage. Theon let himself groan and yell through it, forcefully reminding himself that surely he had been through worse.

“I think this is so much better. I’m rather glad you suggested it,” Ramsay dropped the last nail (stolen from the little finger of the left hand whilst Theon cursed and cried) into a metal dish with a faint clatter. “House pets have no need for claws, do they?”

Theon only looked at him through wet and hateful eyes. Even in exhaustion, the flames of his spite burned hot and high.

“Now don’t be that way. I’m only giving you what you asked for,” Ramsay said in a parody of innocence. “And you _always_ get what you ask for, do you not? That’s what you told me.”

“That was when I thought you were a low-born trapper,” Theon spat the gag onto the floor. “Instead of a low-born would-be king.”

Ramsay cruelly pinched the soft, bleeding nub that had been made of his index finger, nearly causing Theon to black out on the spot.

“I _am_ a king, you salt-soaked mutant,” he hissed. “In fact, of the two of us I am the only one who has or will ever bear a crown at all. You are no prince. Not in your own lands, and most certainly not in my dungeon.”

He stepped away, grasping another blade from his table.

“You’ve only gone from being your sister’s sorry dog to being mine,” the Red King said. “And I will hold you a damn sight better than she.”

* * *

“Why do you let such things vex you so?”

Coral was one of the older Sirens, still alive and soon to reach her thirtieth year. To Theon’s barely adolescent age it seemed very seasoned indeed.

“Mind your own affairs.”

He was sullenly perched atop the outcropping of black stone on which they were stationed. He watched unfeeling as an invading ship began to quickly take on water in the middle distance. The winter was unkind to many, and occasionally Southron ships grew desperate enough to attempt a siege (usually a retributory one, in all honesty) on the islands. The Sirens took it upon themselves to sing the trespassers into the rocks as needed.

“Is your sense of self so fragile that you are this easily brought low by shame?” Coral demanded, her trident flashing in the moonlight. “Your body is a gift from the Drowned God. He has reshaped it to be strong in your service to him.”

Theon scoffed. In the past he had assumed that male and female Deep Ones were simply impossible to tell apart. Now it seemed the truth was that such barriers simply did not exist in their kind at all.

“I don’t know what ‘service’ our lord expects me to perform, but I will have none of it.”

“Curb your tongue.” Coral’s stern expression melted into something more sympathetic. “You are young. I know you’ve suffered. But it does not help to see yourself as cursed, Theon. You place too much care in the perceptions of others when you are well beyond all of them now.”

Theon wanted to bury his face in his knees. He wanted to spit on these women who presumed to be his new mother or sister and rail that he’d already had a family. He’d _had_ a destiny before they came along and ruined it.

It took everything he had not to hate them, to hate his body, to even hate the bloody Drowned God for what had been done to him.

“It’s not fair,” was what he said instead.

“Nor is the sea, nor the seasons, nor the men who live and die by them,” Coral said. “The world is only fair in stories. Happy endings are few and far between in winter, and even those who survive will bear its scars.”

* * *

Theon was wrenched from restless sleep by the deafening call of a huntsman’s horn, the shock of it causing his body to twist and lurch against his restraints.

He had fallen asleep after Ramsay’s departure, and judging by the wet blood on his mauled fingertips the Red King had not waited long before disturbing him once again.

“I hope you rested well _m’lord_ ,” Ramsay mocked, horn in hand. “I was just thinking that it was time to relieve you of your confines.”

Theon blinked warily at the other man, suspicion and dread mingling in his chest. Surely the man was not turning him loose?

“What’s your game now?” He asked, almost shrinking against the saltire.

“How unkind. After all you’re a guest under my hospitality,” Ramsay said, eyes eerily distant. “Even though you betrayed it when you swanned up into my territory and killed my third favorite wife.”

“… But you’ve only-“

“Yes I’ve only got the two now, thanks to you.” Ramsay said, sounding supremely unbothered. “You know how it is. You get the first one on a whim, and then figure to get another so it doesn’t get lonely and they can entertain themselves. Then a third just sort of comes along and you figure that you’ve already got two so what’s one more? And three is such a well-rounded number, I think.”

Theon blinked, drowsy from blood loss. Were they still talking about women? He spoke of marriage like a child acquiring pets.

Ramsay sighed, absently running his fingers down Theon’s skin. “But still. _Still._ Tansy was mine. A man has responsibilities you know, to his household. Now I have my wives wheedling in my ear to make a gift of your head.”

It was probably pointless for Theon to continue defending his innocence. He wasn’t sure Ramsay even cared at any rate.

“So why don’t you?”

“Hm. Why indeed.” Ramsay looked him over lazily. “So it’s Prince Theon, is it? I don’t really think that suits you. I heard that Sirens all took on new names as well - perhaps we’ll come up with one together later.”

Ramsay motioned at the hall and Theon’s alarm escalated as four bloodstained Red Men entered the chamber.

He struggled violently even as they released him from his restraints, wrestling him off of the saltire. He was strong, but the torture and the loss of blood had wrung him, and the Red Men were abominations of deceptive strength. Each man gasped and arm or leg before hoisting him up.

“Now, now. There’s no cause to be shy,” Ramsay approached his thrashing form, fingers probing beneath the seam of Theon’s suit to slide it open the rest of the way. “This thing has really been in my way for far too long.”

It took a while, even with the five of them pinning him, to strip Theon from the confines of his suit. He even got a few good shots in before the sleeves could be peeled from his arms. The Red Men swore and backhanded him in response, but Ramsay only laughed for the spectacle and the sport of it all. When the suit was worked down to his navel, the king motioned for his men to stop.

“What are _these_?”

He brushed his fingers in fascination over the slits of Theon’s gills. They instinctively clamped tight against his body in response and Ramsay slapped them, the pain sharper than he probably even intended due to not knowing how sensitive they were. The look in his pale eyes was nothing short of pure childish glee.

He curiously began to work a nail under one of the ribbons of flesh, clearly intending to wriggle his way inside the secondary lungs. Theon began to thrash with renewed fervor, his captors faltering and cursing with the strain of holding him. Ramsay snorted and withdrew, even though the look on his face made it clear the matter wasn’t done.

“You really are a little freak, aren’t you?” He said, voice no more than an eager whisper. “I’m surprised there’s no webbing between your stumpy little fingers. Or is it between your toes instead?”

The men began to work the suit down the rest of the way, until it was finally tugged from his legs and flung spitefully into the corner. Theon was left bare in the damp chill of the dungeon, his whole body flushed hot with shame and rage.

“Let’s see here… I suppose this is impressive,” Ramsay flicked his flaccid cock, making Theon’s breath catch loudly. “No fins on that, at least.”

The men holding Theon’s legs lifted them higher so that Ramsay could passively inspect his toes.

“And no webbing here either. I’m almost disappointed! That would have been fun to play with.” He tugged at Theon’s big toe. “Ah well. We can still have fun, can’t we? Maybe we’ll start with-“

His gaze had turned back to Theon’s groin, at which point his words died abruptly.

“What the fuck is that?” He grasped Theon’s thighs to force them further apart. “What _is_ that?”

Theon bucked in protest but the other man held fast, brow furrowed in concentration.

“What am I looking at here…?” Ramsay mumbled, seemingly to himself.

The men holding Theon’s legs were craning their necks to have a look.

“It looks like a-“

There was the sudden awful sensation of Ramsay’s finger invading Theon’s body. The strangled noise that escaped his throat was barely human.

“Oh? Do you like that?” The finger wiggled experimentally.

He really did not. Ramsay’s finger was dry and rough, foreign and uninvited in the channel of his brood pouch.

Ramsay laughed, a breathy sound that was half humor and half bewilderment. “And here I thought you were deformed already. What’s wrong? Never had anything up here before?”

From the depths of Theon’s core he somehow unearthed enough panicked strength to wrench one of his arms free. As soon as the man at his left shoulder dropped him, felt that awful finger slip from between his legs. He wildly kicked and twisted against his captors, finally catching one of them in the chest with the heel of his foot before punching another in the stomach - he screamed out at the impact against his bleeding hand, but the blow was still true.

His struggles were instantly halted by a heavy kick to his side. The stiff boot caught him right in his gills, the shock and agony blotting out his vision for several moments.

When Theon came to, he was being manhandled atop a cold slab of a table, wrists and ankles belted down once more.

“Well that,” Ramsay said, seemingly breathless from more than just exertion. “was _quite_ the spectacle, prince.”

He ran his hand reverently down Theon’s body. His winter eyes were disquietingly shuttered, his demeanor jarringly quiet and contemplative.

“I’ve never caught something like you before…”

* * *

Time quickly lost all meaning.

There were no stars to watch, no meals to count, no scheduled bells that could reach him in the dungeon. Theon could only roughly gauge the span of his captivity by Ramsay’s comings and goings, and even that was simply not reliable.

Sometimes it felt like days had passed since his tormentor last came to feed him scraps. At other points it felt like the Red King had scarcely kept himself away a few hours before returning to Theon’s cell.

Ramsay liked his games, and he liked the toll of Theon’s losses all the more. So far the penalties included a finger, flayed and severed, and two molars slowly pulled. However his true fascination lay in the aberrations of his captive’s body.

He did eventually manage to force Theon’s gills open far enough to fit half of his hand through, drunk on the screams and the feeling of their fleshy interior. Next he’d gotten the idea to “clean him out” by forcing Theon into a tub of wine and clamping his nose and mouth shut. Breathing the drink in through his gills had burned him inside, leaving him incoherent and sick for days after.

Ramsay was like a child with a new toy, cruelly testing limits. He pointedly did not touch Theon’s most shameful place again, although he taunted him over it mercilessly.

Theon began to grow wary of a new game when Ramsay came into the dungeon with a full platter of food.

“You must be hungry,” he said, as if he had not been the cause of Theon’s gradual starvation. “Don’t wear such a look. Be sweet now, and I’ll let you eat your fill.”

Theon looked suspiciously at the food, even as his stomach squirmed in hunger. Perhaps Ramsay felt a need to mend some of the damage he’d done in the previous experiment. Maybe he hadn’t intended for Theon to get that ill, not when there were still so many games he wanted to play.

“You’re no good to me in such a pathetic state,” Ramsay said cloyingly, as if to confirm Theon’s theory. “Be a good dog and eat.”

Theon did not have the strength to refuse further. He even smothered his pride and ate from Ramsay’s hand, his own arms still strapped down. It was probably to his benefit; if left to his own devices he’d likely have wolfed the whole plate down and made another ailment of it. Instead Ramsay fed him at a steady pace.

“There we are.” He asked, smearing grease along the line of Theon’s bottom lip. “What do you say?”

Theon scowled, a humiliated flush spreading across his cheeks. “Thank you.”

Ramsay looked at him expectantly, brow raised.

Theon almost wished for death. “… Thank you _my liege_.”

Ramsay beamed. “See? You can be good after all.”

Theon still waited for the catch, the cost. For the game to make itself known. Ramsay only left shortly thereafter, but still Theon did not dare to hope that would be the end of it.

His fears were seemingly confirmed a mere two days of rounded meals and clean water later. It had been far too good to be true.

“You’re looking better today,” Ramsay had said, shutting the cell door firmly behind him. “Almost as rosy as the day I met you.”

A sinking feeling settled in Theon’s stomach as the Red King took a leisurely inhale at the junction of his neck. The bite marks from that first attack had never fully healed.

“You do smell unusual, you know. The fact that you haven’t bathed in a while does you no favors, but your blood scent has always been odd. Maybe I should name _you_ Reek,” he said. “I had a friend by that name once. Unfortunately I didn’t always have the best control of my urges back then. My hungers sometimes got the better of me. We were hunting, he was standing too close… accidents happen. I don’t think he would have faulted me for it. Maybe he even wanted it that way. It’s special isn’t it, to be killed by the one you love most? I’ve always thought so.”

Ramsay shrugged and breathed deeper, practically burrowing his face against Theon’s skin.

“You didn’t taste like I’d expected, either. Blood typically has such a heavy, hearty sort of flavor. But you were… sweet, almost.”

He rubbed insistently on the sore wound at Theon’s throat, working the blood beneath the marred skin.

“We have been playing a little bit rough lately, I admit. But I have no intention of killing you just yet.” Ramsay’s fangs elongated before Theon’s eyes, protruding wickedly from his gums. “And now that you’re fed, there’ll be more of you to go around.”

His teeth pierced Theon’s skin slowly, sinking into the flesh at his leisure. Warm blood welled at the site, quickly lapped away by the wet strokes of Ramsay’s tongue. Theon groaned, back arching off the table at the odd feeling.

Theon had been made to feel like an object in the past: a game piece of the Seastone Chair, the property of the Drowned God. However before Ramsay he had never felt like meat. Like an _animal_. A plaything to be toyed with, broken and devoured.

Ramsay pulled away at last, blood staining his lips. His eyes glittered in the dim lighting of the cell, pupils blown wide and bottomless. He had never looked less human.

“I knew you’d be worth keeping,” he said lowly, painting the blood along Theon’s skin.

“What do you want?” Theon asked, voice rough and weak. “You can’t- you can’t hold me here forever.”

“Oh?” Ramsay tilted his head inquisitively. “Why not?”

Theon’s body ran cold.

“Don’t fuss. I think you’ll settle in nicely.” Ramsay pressed his fangs into the flesh of his own wrist, dark blood trickling down from the wound. “I’ve never done this before with someone who couldn’t be turned. I wonder what will happen?”

Before Theon could protest the wrist was being held to his lips, the bitter taste washing across his tongue and down his throat. He choked and gagged, lights dancing across his vision.

“Do you like it?” Ramsay whispered in his ear, fingers splayed out across Theon’s chest. “Let it happen, just like that. Don’t you feel me inside you?”

It felt almost like drowning, like being submerged from the inside out by a force he couldn’t fight or refuse. He could no longer tell if he was hot or cold, dreaming or awake, supine or upright - everything was upside down and inside out. The Red King’s blood was a terrible drug.

In the back of Theon’s whirling, intoxicated mind he could not help but feel like something thoroughly unnatural was taking place. Surely the blood of the Grey and Red Kings was never meant to meet and mingle so, especially with the Siren and bloodfiend’s veins both so heavy with the blessings of their gods.

Ramsay’s fingers were feather-light as they ran down the line of Theon’s throat. His expression was vacant on the surface, but Theon could sense storm clouds churning beneath those glassy eyes.

“The gods must have sent you for me,” Ramsay mused at last, grasp tightening. “How ungrateful would I be to refuse?”

* * *

They shared blood more often after that. Each time it happened, Theon felt his grip on reality begin to slip ever more.

He didn’t know if he were truly losing his mind or if he could actually sense it now when Ramsay approached the dungeons. Long before the heavy footfalls began to echo down the hall, he would feel the Red King drawing close.

The more their blood mixed within them, the more attuned they seemed to become to each other’s thoughts and moods. The torture did not cease. If anything Ramsay became even more high on the acts of torment, as he could now savor the full force of Theon’s suffering through their unholy communion. It was undoubtedly blood magic of the darkest kind, but the Red King had clearly developed a taste for it.

It was a deep and twisted form of intimacy as Theon was laid bare in every way, the Red King invading him down to the marrow. Ramsay came down to the dungeons on almost a daily basis now. Sometimes just for a taste, a touch, a few obligatory lances of his blade.

 _He’s getting addicted to me_ , Theon thought with a distant sort of horror.

In the moments where he leaned into the Red King’s jaws and licked with only barest resistance at his dripping wrist, Theon feared the effect was mutual.

That day (evening? It hardly mattered anymore) was like most others. Theon could feel his lord moving through the halls, descending into the dungeon. As the footsteps neared he realized the king was not alone.

“I just don’t understand why he’s still alive,” Myranda’s voice echoed down. “Surely you’ve had your fun with him by now. After what he did to Tansy-”

“I told you that I’d find another bride if you were so bothered,” Ramsay said, sounding bored.

“Another - !?” Myranda cut herself off. “That is not the problem! You now spend every waking moment of your spare time toying with this creature when you should have put him out of his misery weeks ago.”

Weeks? Had it been weeks? Months even? Was Yara yet wondering why Theon had not written her again?

The steps and voices stopped outside the cell door.

“You never took issue with my games before.”

“I love your games. I love you. But this is a fixation now, Ramsay. Send the creature out for a hunt and let’s be done with it.”

“I’m not finished with him yet. In fact, I was just thinking of taking him upstairs.”

A pause. “Upstairs?”

“He’s very nearly broken in now. I think it’d be rather nice - I could keep him with the other dogs in the kennel, perhaps in a cage in my chambers if he's good…”

Myranda made an odd sound in her throat. “I will not sleep with that beast at the foot of our bed!”

“It’s my bed. And I will put him - and you - exactly where I please.”

Theon could almost see the first bride struggling to calm herself.

“My king,” she said carefully. “Why are you keeping the merling alive? There is other, fresher prey out there you can use to sate yourself. You’ve never kept a toy this long, especially one that you refuse to share-“

“So that’s what this is about, then?” Ramsay asked dangerously. “You want to play with my things, Myranda?”

“What? No! But first you roam the woods for days with your bride’s killer, then you hold him in your dungeon for weeks, scarcely allowing anyone else to even look upon him let alone have a taste.” Her voice lowered. “I have heard what they say about Sirens. I fear this creature may have placed you under some spell.”

Ramsay snorted. “The idiot tried upon our first meeting. His magic has no effect on me, same as I cannot turn him. Such is the nature of king’s blood. Do not trouble yourself with things beyond your understanding.”

“But Ramsay-“

“I find your nagging wearisome. Find something to entertain yourself with and leave me be.”

The cell door opened and Ramsay appeared, quickly swinging it shut to shutter Myranda out in the hall.

“Good morning,” he said brightly, suddenly all false sweetness and dangerous smiles as he placed a small plate of food on the desk. “Sleep well?”

Theon looked at him dully from where he hung strapped to the cross.

“As well as can be expected, my liege.”

Myranda’s words were still cycling in his mind. It was true that towards the beginning of his captivity, Ramsay had come in with his boys on occasion. They held Theon down for some of the tortures, or participated with whips and blades of their own. Now however, those group activities were absent. Theon wasn’t sure when last he’d seen a living person other than Ramsay.

“Is that so?” Ramsay asked, examining his flaying knife. Theon’s two missing fingers and three missing toes throbbed in phantom pains at the sight of it. “Are my accommodations beneath your standards?”

“N-no,” Theon said, throat dry. “I just. I have dreams, my liege.”

“Ah yes. I remember.” Ramsay sauntered over, eyes sharp as if trying to calculate where he most wished to cause pain next. “They brought you such trouble when we were on the road. You never told me what it was you dreamt about.”

Theon kept his eyes on the floor even as Ramsay closed in, the man having as little regard for personal space as ever.

“I only dream of you, your grace.”

“As well you should.” Ramsay traced the bite marks on Theon’s neck. “My wives are getting jealous of you. That usually doesn’t end well for someone. Jealousy is just so boring, don’t you think?”

“I… I wouldn’t know,” Theon said cautiously. “I can’t imagine why anyone would be jealous of me.”

“Well you are a filthy little freak of nature, I grant you that. Yet I have been giving you so much of my attention lately. Aren’t you grateful?”

“Yes! Of course I am!” Theon was starting to sweat. He absolutely did not care for that look in Ramsay’s eyes. “I’m not deserving of your time, your grace.”

“So you want me to leave, is that it?”

“That - no! No, I-“ Theon faltered, seeing the laughter that graced Ramsay’s eyes whenever he put Theon in a lose-lose situation. “I would hate for you to leave me.”

Ramsay hummed, barely able to contain his sadistic pleasure at the words. He reached for the plate of food on the desk and held a cold piece of chicken up to Theon’s lips.

“I can’t tell if you’re pale because you’re ill or if you’ve just been down here so long. Eat.”

Theon hesitated. Hungry as he was, eating was what kept him viable as a blood source for Ramsay to feed on. The constant sharing and mixing of their blood was having an effect on them both, and it wasn’t something Theon wanted to see through.

Ramsay frowned. “Don’t make me ask twice. I’ll force every bite down your gullet myself if I must, and will be _very_ cross by the end of it.”

Theon relented, reluctantly swallowing the food down. Nothing that happened in the Dreadfort was within his power to stop, least of all this strange magic that was brewing between them. It was frightening, perhaps even moreso than the Red King’s flaying knife. If Theon lost his grip on who and what he was… should the opportunity arise, would he even be able to leave at all?

* * *

Theon had never been very good at taking others’ advice.

It became almost a matter of spite, to go against what Pearl had said. He could still be a man and a prince, he could still be the master of his own body. He wanted to be the exception, and why should he not be?

He had emerged from the temple alive and shaking, a choir of siren song resounding in his ears and sea-glow in his eyes. He returned to his family’s castle, even though his mother could only weep at the sight of him and Yara would hardly meet his gaze. His father was more cordial than he’d been in the past, but as he would be if Theon were only a stranger - just another Siren come to parley with the rock king of Pyke, and not the man’s own son.

He smothered his heartbreak in scorn and denial. He pushed away the other Sirens and resented his mother’s weakness. When his sister killed the Nagga and united the islands beneath her rule, he accepted her offer of escape to the North even though her pity was as ash in his mouth. He left the sea and freely bedded whatever women he could find, just to show the world that no god owned his flesh more than Theon did himself. He was always at his most difficult when he had something to prove.

Robb had never made him feel like he needed to prove anything. The pair of them could simply _be_.

At least he’d thought so.

Wights had always been drawn to Bran. Given half the opportunity they would charge him like rabid beasts, even ignoring all other prey that might be in closer or easier reach. Determined as they were (or rather, determined as their master seemed to be), it was perhaps inevitable that some would occasionally slip past the pack’s defenses.

A wight had been in the process of dragging Bran away and through the brush when Theon had fired a flaming arrow into its rotting socket, his sea dragon blade dismembering the creature in short order before putting it to the torch. He thought Robb would be grateful and proud. It was not so.

“This is _my_ family, not yours!” Robb had been nearly in tears, clutching his brother close. “And it’s not another of your bloody games!”

The incident had shortly preceded Theon’s decision to return to the islands. His sister was urging him back and the Sirens were miffed he’d ever left in the first place. Robb surely cared for him but clearly Theon was still an outsider and not trusted to the extent he had hoped.

“You don’t have to go,” Robb had later said, watching him pack. “I can't fathom what it is he wants with Bran, but the Night King is growing more bold by the day. I’m rallying the North to reinforce the border.”

“A just cause.”

“Then you should fight it with us. Stay. That young Marsh Prince tells Bran that there may be a means of walling the Others out for good, but to do so we need to keep the line. Jon needs more men-“

“That is your fight,” Theon said, voice flat and eyes fixed on the wall. “My responsibility is to the Drowned God, the Seastone Chair and the rookery. My place is in the islands, not in the North with _your_ family.”

Robb’s eyes had flashed with hurt and anger. “So you would leave us all to be ravaged by the Night King’s forces? What happens then? I know not if wights can swim, but do you think the Others have no means to sail?”

“It is not my decision to make,” Theon said. “…And I thought I had already done my share against the Night King’s creatures.”

* * *

“How would you like to leave the dungeon, pet?”

Theon looked blearily up at him, the sweet tang of his master’s blood still lingering on his tongue.

“Leave for where?”

“Not far. Just upstairs. You’ve been awfully docile lately and I think you’ve earned the chance to prove yourself.”

Ramsay was casually bandaging the wound on his wrist. It would likely bear a scar on account of how frequent their feedings had become. The same would be true for Theon’s neck by now.

“I… I would do my best, your grace.”

“Of course you would.”

Ramsay buckled a heavy collar around Theon’s neck, the thick leather weighed down further by the length of chain being used as a lead. He unstrapped Theon’s arms and legs from their restraints.

Theon nearly fell straight to the floor. His muscles were so taut and stiff by now, his feet unused to walking on the stunted remains of his toes. He leaned on Ramsay heavily, draped in the lord’s cloak to hide his otherwise bare form. The exposure to clean, circulated air actually left Theon lightheaded as they emerged. Together they navigated the grim halls of the Dreadfort, ignoring the curious looks of others and eventually climbing more stairs to ascend one of the towers. Theon had begun to feel deeply uneasy, the unfamiliarity of this new game setting his nerves alight.

Ramsay shushed and guided him into what appeared to be a wide open solar. It was situated at the peak of the tower, with vast open windows on all sides. Theon was momentarily distracted by the sight of endless snow-covered trees, the forests and mountains sprawling out around them.

Then he saw it.

On a pedestal at the center of the room was a large steel syringe filled with bright red fluid.

“I’ll have you know I didn’t plan for this,” Ramsay said mildly, because god forbid he didn’t torture Theon with his voice along with everything else. “I was perfectly content to mind my own business. Father was the one with the agenda, taking issue with the Winter Kings. He wanted to shake up the North and step in amidst the disorder, you see.”

Theon had never felt so numb. Even the ever-present pain in his tattered body seemed faraway.

“And word has it that Prince Bran is the one the Night King wants most,” Ramsay carried on. “Without big brother to protect him, what was to stop us from cutting a deal and trading the boy away?”

Theon blinked away his tears to look at his torturer with a new kind of horror.

“He’s only a child! There is no bartering with the Night King besides.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I suppose we may never know. Anyway, my father thought the curse was a nice means of sewing chaos. It also provided him with a method of killing King Robb without any of the Winter Kingdom’s loyalists faulting him for it. After all, who could blame a lord for slaying a beast?” Ramsay snorted. “The plan likely would have worked, had I not swapped out the silver arrows when father went hunting.”

“… You arranged for Robb to kill your father.”

“It was clever, don’t you think?” Ramsay gave him a squeeze. Theon’s bones creaked. “The cure is just a security precaution. Can’t be too careful.”

“Indeed,” Theon said, chest feeling hollowed out and empty.

“You don’t seem glad. This is what you came for!” Ramsay motioned at the cure with a flourish. “Go on. Take it. You have to save your dear, sweet Robb!”

Theon couldn’t move. He could scarcely breath.

“No? You’re going to let him down again? Leave him to his fate? How very, very cruel of you.” Ramsay yanked the cloak from Theon’s shoulders, exposing him to the cold open air of the room. He pushed Theon harshly against one of the icy pillars. “I thought you _loved_ him. Did he know what you were, or did you lie to him and say you were a man? Did he ever fuck you down here?”

He roughly shoved his fingers between Theon’s legs, rubbing at the tight slit that was almost hidden behind his balls.

Theon just about swallowed his tonsils. “N-no. We never. I was as a brother to him.”

“And among all those whores you’ve bedded, has anyone ever taken you? Or were you saving it for someone _special_?”

Theon was desperately looking anywhere but at the jeering man before him.

“Mostly I just… try to forget it’s there, your grace.”

He didn’t know if it was weight loss or the bloodfiend's strength that made it so easy for Ramsay hoist him up by the thighs, still pinning him tightly against the pillar.

“Have you thought of King Robb often since coming here?” Ramsay asked, somehow managing to work his trousers low enough to free himself.

Theon faltered. He had thought of Robb, certainly, especially in the early days of his captivity. However recently his mind had begun to bury those memories far below, where the horrors of the Dreadfort couldn’t touch them. Ever since the feedings became more regular, his thoughts had been thoroughly dominated by Ramsay. The Red King’s blood was potent, and if Theon were not already Siren he might have been turned into a bloodfiend a dozen times over.

“... Not lately, my liege.”

“Because you’ve been thinking of me,” Ramsay said, pressing the head of his cock against Theon’s entrance. “You’ve been dreaming of _me._ Every moment, waking and not, I have been in your veins and in your thoughts. What I want, what I’ll do, when I’ll return - that is all you need concern yourself with now. What do you think it means, that I consume you whilst your precious Robb fades away?”

Theon could barely hear him, his blood pounding so hard in his ears as every fiber of his being fixated on that pressure against his slit.

“Because I think,” Ramsay whispered, nipping at Theon’s clavicle, “it means you must love me more.”

He did not force himself in all at once, but it stung all the same as he gradually slid himself into Theon’s body.

“It’s tight,” Ramsay’s fingers were digging bruises into pale thighs and hips. “Come now and ease up some. Unless you want me to get stuck in you.”

Theon had never felt more like a spectator in his own skin. His mind was simply incapable of processing what was happening. There was the pain, yes, the unyielding press of Ramsay’s manhood demanding to be accommodated by the virgin channel to Theon’s brood pouch. Worse still was the shame.

It wasn’t odd for Ironborn to bed men but they had to be the ones who took, not those who were taken. It was something only done to foreigners - thralls or salt grooms - because to do so to another Ironborn was the greatest insult. And to be an Ironborn overpowered and degraded in such a way… it was unspeakable.

Theon didn’t know how to fight it. The Red King’s hands were strong and steady on his frail body, the taste of blood still tainting his tongue. The very prospect of a struggle was beyond imagining.

It was with a grunt and a sigh that Ramsay at last fully seated himself within Theon’s body. For several moments they only remained pressed together, breathing laboriously. Each twitch and rub of Ramsay’s cock against his inner walls drew a new gasp from Theon’s lips. Yet beneath the soreness that came with being forced open, there was a different sort of heat building as his body adjusted to the invasion: it wasn’t immediately pleasurable, but nor was it repellant. It reminded him somewhat of scratching an itch too hard - gratification mixed with pain.

“Just a bit more,” Ramsay murmured, adjusting himself as Theon’s walls flexed and fluttered with little spasms around him. “If you chafe me, I’ll stick something up here you _really_ won’t like.”

Images like that were the opposite of helpful. Theon clamped his eyes shut and tilted his head back against the pillar. If he thought about it in an abstract way, the firm grasp on his body wasn’t unpleasant. Ramsay was holding onto him like a lifeline, with a hungry sort of desperation that couldn’t be bought. He focused on the familiar scent of the other man, on the hard thrum of a pulse that he could feel where their bodies met. If he shut his shaken, indignant, horrified mind out… he could do this.

“There we go.” Ramsay moved again, the way easier now that Theon’s body had begun to generate slick. “Good boy.”

The thrust started slow before building in confidence as Ramsay judged the passage to be relaxed and wet enough to accept him. There was no designated pleasure spot in the depths of Theon’s brood pouch, but the soft flesh of his channel was brilliantly sensitive. The friction grew more favorable with every thrust, his body quick as ever to adapt for him.

They rutted together like beasts against that pillar, not a stone’s throw away from Robb’s cure, the respective grunts and whimpers of their coupling echoing in the vastness of the chamber. Theon found himself staring out one of the great windows and the endless winter forest beyond. Perhaps from this height, if the skies were clearer and night not so deep, he could glimpse the sea…

“Don’t you look away from me,” Ramsay growled, lighting sparks behind Theon’s eyes with a particularly pointed thrust. “Nothing out there matters. As far as you’re concerned, I am all that exists.”

Theon redirected his gaze to Ramsay’s blue moon eyes, his arms wound about the other man’s shoulders for stability. That gaze was both terrible and beautiful, the focal point of so many bad dreams and cruel nights. On sea or land, Theon had never imagined such a creature could exist.

Whatever Ramsay had spied in Theon’s own seafoam eyes had apparently struck a chord. The Red King was suddenly sinking his fangs into his prey’s neck with a moan. His rhythm became more hurried, mercilessly overloading Theon’s senses.

He drew away just long enough to rip the bandage from his wrist with his teeth and hold the half-closed wound to Theon’s mouth.

“ _Drink_ damn you,” he hissed.

Theon did.

The blood, the cruel pace, and the close press of their bodies quickly proved too much. He was spilling over the edge before he could even realize what was happening. He felt it when Ramsay spent shortly after, hot and wet inside him.

After a weighted moment Ramsay slowly sank to his knees, sliding them both to the floor to lie entangled at the foot of the pillar.

No one spoke. They hardly dared to move and break the spell of their afterglow, to confront what filth had just transpired.

At long last Ramsay gave a final lick to Theon’s neck before planting a bloody kiss to his brow.

“I can take you back to the dungeons,” he said softly. “Or you can stay with the dogs. I may even keep you in a crate in my chambers if you behave. Would you like that?”

Theon swallowed, body throbbing sorely without the pleasure to dull it. Ramsay still hadn’t pulled out.

“I would greatly appreciate it, my liege.”

In the corner of his eye, the cure glinted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, an intellectual adjusting my monocle: I am ToO gOoD to write a/b/o!!  
> Also me, a bog cretin: Aah yes. Seahorses. The *classy* way to write fantasy intersex.  
> You can just pitch me into the abyss now. I'm ready.


End file.
